I hummed to myself as I dusted my bedroom. It wasn't dirty; it was simply a weekly routine, a prelude to the vacuuming. In the bathroom behind the wall in front of me, the water stopped running; my son, back home from his football training, had complained of muscle stiffness, and he had been in there for over half an hour. I suspected that it wasn't the only kind of stiffness he was trying to attend to in there, but I knew it was normal for a young man his age to be like that.

The next sound I heard was that of breaking glass; the new neighbours had proven painful, their children insisting on using a cricket ball rather than a tennis one for their backyard games. Despite remonstrating with them frequently, I knew it would only be a matter of time before they broke a window. I sighed, my shoulders slumping at the thought of picking up the pieces. I had a hate-hate relationship with glass; any time it was broken, and no matter how careful I was in cleaning it up afterwards, I would invariably wind up with a shard in my foot.

Making a face, I dropped the feather duster and trooped off to the kitchen to check. I made it as far as the hallway before gasping in shock; it was not my son, but a man wearing a balaclava! He held a long, ugly knife in one hand, one like the cowboys always had in the Westerns my son loved to watch. He held it menacingly, eyes blazing with murderous intent. I scrambled backwards, trying to get away; he lunged, grabbing one of my flailing arms.

"Quiet, bitch!" He hissed, alcohol-fuelled breath making me feel nauseous. Twisting my arm until tears welled in my eyes, he marched me back into my bedroom, holding the knife to my throat. I swallowed dryly, terrified of what he might he do. Without warning, he kicked my legs out from underneath me, sending me crashing to the floor.

"Strip!" he roared, waving the knife at me. Oh God, I thought, as my silent tears became quiet sobs. Not this, not ... not... I couldn't even begin to think the word, but I knew what he wanted. Every woman's worst nightmare. He kicked me, hard, in the face; stars exploded, and I tasted blood where I had bitten my tongue. Praying that my son would have heard what was happening by now, I slowly complied, trying to draw things out. It didn't work; snarling, the thug wrenched me around painfully by my hair, the knife slicing through my cotton shift as he got me up on all fours. At home and not expecting guests, I had elected to go braless, the summer heat impacting greatly on the choice. Instead, a pair of panties were the only things protecting what remained of my modesty, and he quickly cut those away, too. I could hear the clinking as he clumsily unbuckled his belt and unzipped, the knife biting painfully into the base of my throat.

I wept, bracing myself for the violation to come. It never did. Instead, I heard a fearsome roar from behind me, followed by a series of thumps and oofs of pain. The thug barrelled past me, my son in hot pursuit. Suddenly, it occurred to my would-be rapist that he was the one with a weapon; he spun back to face Brandon, knife poised to strike. Time slowed to a stop as he lunged forward.

I scrabbled backwards, curling up in a ball as far away from the fight as I could get, crossing my legs and holding my arms across my breasts to cover my nakedness. The knife glittered evilly in the morning light, descending with torturous slowness. Brandon caught it with his left forearm, the blade plunging through between his radius and ulna. Berserk, he turned it to his advantage, wrenching his arm violently away, tearing the knife from the intruder's grip. He followed up with another primal, bloody roar, lashing out with a powerful kick that sent the black-clad bastard flying backwards, crashing through the glass sliding doors that opened from my room onto the patio. With a quick backwards glance, he set off at pace, jumping the back fence and disappearing.

As he'd struck out with that front-kick, the towel that had been wrapped around Brandon's waist had fallen loose. I watched on, idly realising I was in shock as his chest heaved whilst he came down from the killing edge and turned towards me. Absently, I noted his impressive size and girth, comparing them to the last penis I had seen; Brandon had managed to wheedle me into going to see Watchmen with him, and I had been at first mortified and then entranced by the mighty blue wang of Doctor Manhattan.

Coming to a halt in front of me, he crouched down, resting his injured arm across his knees and bringing my chin up with his right hand. Blood oozed around the knife blade, slowly forming red drops that ran down his arm and leg, staining the white carpet of my bedroom floor. I realised he was saying something, though it sounded like he was talking under water in this endless, hellish moment. As he shook me, I snapped back abruptly into real time.

"-ou OK, mum?"

I broke down in tears, nodding. I was desperate for comfort, and despite our naked states I latched onto him. I must have jarred his arm, for he grunted in pain, flinching away from me. Drawing back slightly, I looked down to where the knife showed, reaching to pull it out. He moved quickly, stepping back. "No, mum. Stuff like this, you've gotta leave in. They'll take care of it at the hospital."

Hospital, yes. My mind fuzzily chewed on the problem at hand. As I clawed my way free of my funk, I realised I was standing naked in front of my son, breasts heaving with each rapid, panting breath I took. Down below, I had prepared for the beach season by having my pubic hair waxed; I was acutely aware that my son, even now, could look upon the place that had ushered him into the world. I blushed, trying to cover up; as I did so, he seemed to notice his own nakedness, and bent to collect his towel. Although it was absurd- taboo, even- I watched as his glorious manhood swung with each step, and was disappointed as he hid it beneath his towel. Turning back to me, he lofted my dressing gown towards me; he watched as I put it on, obviously unwilling to leave me alone in case our attacker returned.

Clothed as best we could, we set about calling the emergency services. I followed Brandon's directions, wrapping an old towel around his arm and compressing it slightly to slow the bleeding. He insisted he was fine, that it didn't hurt, but I was beside myself, fretting over him to take my mind off what had so very nearly happened to me. At that thought, I felt guilty; nothing had happened to me, after all. Sure, some scumbag had gotten an eyeful of me from behind, but Brandon had been willing to risk life and limb in my defence.

Outside, sirens wailed; the Ambulance had, at long last, arrived. I helped Brandon to stand, after he wobbled uncertainly at his first attempt, and got him to the waiting emergency vehicle. We raced to the local Hospital; the Ambulance officers inserted a saline IV and some quick injections to help mitigate my daring son's blood loss. Everything unfolded in a flurry; the Casualty Ward doctors ushered me out of the room whilst they worked. I nervously tapped my feet, staring at the flimsy curtain that separated me from my brave protector.

I did not have to endure overly long; soon enough I was back sitting beside him, squeezing his good hand between my own two hands whilst the doctors ran us through the injury and what we had to do to ensure his recovery. Brandon had been lucky; the knife had gone through his arm just so, grating across the bones and passing though flesh in such a way that his major blood vessels and nerves. He had suffered a little bit of muscle damage, but the doctor assured him that his playing career was in no doubt, which was all Brandon was worried about. I, however, questioned the doctor incessantly, plaguing him with an absolute barrage of inquiries.

After learning everything the doctor knew, he left to prepare Brandon's discharge forms. We sat there in silence for a while. I tasted salt in my mouth, and I realised I was crying again. Brandon, ever the gentleman, moved over in the bed until he was at the far edge, then patted the mattress beside him. Wordlessly, I joined him there, curling up against his strong body. He wrapped his arm around me, rubbing my shoulder reassuringly. I rested my head against his chest, feeling safe again for the first time since the nightmare began.

I was snapped out of my reverie when Brandon shook me. I raised my head, feeling a wetness against my cheek. I realised I had passed out, exhausted emotionally and physically by what had happened. I must have been drooling in my sleep, but Brandon politely ignored it, nodding towards the waiting Police officers, called in to take our statements before we left.

We told them what little we knew; they said that the suspect had done it before to women who lived alone. I was sickened by the thought, but they seemed happy that the knife embedded in my son's arm had returned partial prints. They also told us that when my son had kicked him through the glass panes at our house he had been cut, leaving traces of his blood that could be used for DNA testing. They seemed reasonably hopeful of catching the bastard, but I still trembled, soothed by my son's calm presence.

With the house still an active investigation site- not that I wanted to go back to that violated sanctuary so soon- we were left temporarily homeless. The Police escorted us back there whilst we packed a few things, and then we checked into a hotel for a few days. I thought it would be therapeutic, relaxing even, to luxuriate there for a while before we went back to the house I could still not call "home." Unfortunately, summer represented the peak season; tourists were streaming in to the area to take advantage of the pristine beaches and nearby rainforests. As a result, we could only get a double room, rather than an adjoining suite.

As we settled in for the night, I was seized by a sudden, irrational fear. What if he knew where I was? What if he was coming back to finish what he'd started? I choked back a sob. Brandon's bed sheets rustled, and his lamp came on. I squinted against the sudden brightness, eventually able to make out his concerned face. "You OK?" he asked, quietly. I tried to nod, but instead burst into tears.

He gave me a half-grin, then sat up and threw the covers back, lifting the sheets on my bed and snuggling up beside me. He curled his arms protectively around me. "It's OK, it's going to be all right," he soothed, brushing my hair back from my eyes. I sniffled, but drew courage from his presence, managing to stop crying. Weakly, I attempted a joke.

"Time was you'd cuddle up to me after being scared."

He chuckled, his strong chest vibrating. "Time was. But now let me take care of you, OK? I'm never, never," he repeated his promise with venom "going to let anyone or anything hurt you." He hesitated, as if unsure of himself. He gave me a quick peck on the forehead, then squeezed me a little tighter. "I love you, mum."

All at once, my fears were banished. I knew instantly that he meant what he'd said. I treated him to a little smile, snuggling against him. "I know, sweetie. I love you, too." He nodded, seriously, though his eyes betrayed his concerns. I laid my head down on his chest again, lulled by the strong beat of his heart. He slow rise and fall of his chest, the warmth of his embrace, and that metronomic thud-thud, thud-thud was enough to send me into the grip of sleep, secure at last in my son's arms.

Strangely enough after so emotional a day, I endured no nightmares. When I awoke, still drowsy in the morning light filtering through the Venetian blinds of the hotel room, I discovered that my son had suffered the usual morning... complications men undergo. In our sleep, we had shifted around so that I was on my back, and Brandon lay at my side. One arm was curled beneath my shoulders still, whilst the other was at my hip; his erection pulsed steadily against my side. I again thought back to what I'd seen only yesterday morning, his impressive size even though he was flaccid. I wondered what he would look like, how big he would be now that he was aroused.

It was an odd thought for a mother to have, and I tried to quash it. I found it impossible, though, so I instead gave in to the moment, imagining it was not my son but a prefect and protective lover lying against me. I basked in his heat, in the feeling of safety he engendered in me. I found myself growing wet even as his erection flagged; fortunately, a woman's arousal is much less evident than that of a man. Especially, I thought wickedly to myself such a man as this. A few moments later, Brandon yawned, opening bleary eyes.

"Uh, mum?"

I braced myself, afraid he had been embarrassed by the way his unconscious and uncontrollable morning wood had betrayed him. Instead, he simply asked me if I could roll of his arm, which was tingling with pins and needles after being so long denied enough blood. I hastened to comply, anxious to make him comfortable.

I gave him a radiant smile, and pinched his cheek in a good-natured tease. "Anything for you, honey. Especially after..." I faltered, needing to clear my throat before I continued. "After what happened yesterday. You were so brave, you know. My very own knight in shining ... bath towel."

He chuckled at my gibe; I ruffled his hair affectionately. "My very own Lancelot."

He made a face, as though he had tasted something foul. "What?" I asked, concerned that his injury was causing him pain.

"Eh, Lancelot was a jerk, mum. He killed two of his best friends, seduced his Queen, and then ran off to live in exile because he couldn't deal with the consequences."

I nodded, slowly. "Well, you're my knight, any way. Sir Brandon the Brave." He rolled his eyes, uncomfortable with the praise but not, I hoped, the situation. I hadn't felt so carefree in many years, and in my son's arms the memory of my near-rape seemed distant and foggy, as though it was something I had watched on a TV show, happening to someone else. We lay there like that for long hours, not needing to speak.

Eventually, I wriggled in tighter against him, and promptly fell back asleep.